Havenith had said for many years. Joy, shivering but desperate, knew
this perfectly well, though she didn't formulate it.

"You always hoped for it," she told him firmly.

"I--I did," said Grandfather with an obvious discomfort, but with
unabated loyalty to himself. Then he snatched at a pretext. Poor
little Grandmother's, hands were opening and shutting, but she was
well trained, and she didn't speak till he was through dealing with
the situation.

"Can your friends vouch for him socially?" Grandfather demanded.

Joy's alert, frightened mind scurried about for a moment, then she
plunged into further fabrications.

"He's--why, Grandfather, he's their closest friend, the one they
call Johnny. He--he lives near them."

Grandfather was entirely what the profane would call up a tree. He
had been giving his consent for some seventeen years. And Joy had
swept the ground from under his feet. He did not in the least
remember meeting this amazing lover at any of his receptions, but
there had been a tradition for many years that he never forgot a
name or a face. Now he _had_ been doing it for two or three
seasons past, but he never admitted it to himself, and nobody else
dared admit it, either.

As for the truth of what Joy said, it did not occur to him to doubt
that. Joy had never told them anything but the truth in her life. As